


Part three: Entrée

by Calico, Habernero



Series: Good Bread and Fresh Butter [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chef AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico/pseuds/Calico, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habernero/pseuds/Habernero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't giving up his day job just yet.</p><p>Note: For John, unlike for any gentle readers who have been following this series, there has *not* been a year-long gap between stories; part 3 picks up the following day where part 2 left off. It probably won't work well without a familiarity with part 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John had booked the next day off, in anticipation of the spectacular hangover he normally suffered after such occasions. Given the turn of events, he hadn’t had to drink himself nearly as comatose as usual, which was lucky when he woke up mid-morning to a panicked message from Molly. 

_Come. Come NOW._

John went in through the back, and found Molly by the double doors of the kitchen, in the foyer that led through to the restaurant’s front of house. She was talking in a low voice to Natasha, one of the more senior station chefs, while a pale-faced waiter hovered nearby. 

“Everything needs to be as close to perfect as we can make it,” Molly was telling Natasha, one hand on her arm. “Everything! Not just his table – every single person in here has to have the best Sunday lunch of their lives, do you hear me? He's sitting out there without a glance at the menu, watching everyone else eat, storing up all the details of their experience in that super-critical brain of his - details they're not even aware of themselves!”

“Can I send out some bread?” the waiter blurted. “He keeps staring at me!”

Molly rounded on him. “Do we normally send out bread? Have we sent out bread to anyone else? Has he _asked_ for bread?”

The waiter visibly swallowed. “No.”

“Then no, we can't! Oh thank heaven, John, there you are. We have a situation.”

“I, er, gathered,” John said, as Natasha made a quick exit back into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“Hubert Sigerson,” Molly said darkly, “is out there, waiting to be fed.” 

The name thundered into John’s ears and made him feel hot all over. “What?”

There were certain things John made a point of not doing: he didn’t arse-lick the people in charge of the prizes, he didn’t brush shoulders with journalists, and he avoided restaurant reviewers like the plague. As far as he was concerned, the less he networked the happier he tended to be, and sod the lot of them. But even he was familiar with the toxic reputation of Hubert Sigerson. 

Sigerson was the type of food critic that made Dick Reeves look like a simpering schoolgirl. He had a blog called _The Gastronomic Consult_ , which John couldn’t stand to read; notoriously difficult to please, Sigerson wrote buttock-clenchingly horrible reviews that seemed to relish in uncovering the featured establishment’s every flaw. 

John had never seen a picture of him, but he imagined an enormous man with horns, forked tongue, the works. 

“You heard,” Molly said.

“Fuck,” John said, hurrying to the door to the front of house and peering through its window, trying to get a glimpse. It was Sunday, but they were still busy, almost every table full. He scanned the room, heart in his mouth. “Why’s he here?”

Molly huffed. “God knows, but I’m blaming you. Something must have caught his attention. I almost wouldn’t have noticed, but after the lashing he gave _The Crescent_ —” Molly’s previous establishment “—I found myself Googling him, um, a lot. Memorised the profile, the hair. You know he wears a hat in his by-line?”

“I don’t actually read him,” John said, and for a moment felt like he was admitting some terrible professional delinquency. 

“But he’s— _right, no, take that back in, chuck it away and get a fresh one_ ,” Molly snapped, wheeling on Derek, the most senior of the front of house staff; he’d paused next to them, trying to correct an errant smudge of balsamic glaze on a starter. 

Derek wheeled around and headed back into the kitchen without a word.

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose, colour high on her cheeks. “Fuck!”

John’s unease deepened: he hadn't seen Molly this flustered since… ever. And it wasn't that _Appetite_ was his baby, exactly, but it had taken the majority of his time and energy since he'd been back in the UK and the thought of subjecting it to Sigerson’s dissecting appraisal made him feel sick. 

Molly joined John at the doors, voice lowered again. “You know what, though - this could make us. He’s got practically every socialite in London eating out of his hand. If we get all the details right, this could be it. You know they say he can tell, just by tasting, when you last sharpened your knives?”

“Which one is he?” John asked, and then his eyes fell on a man sitting alone at a corner table, all dark hair and cheekbones, and—oh. Fuck.

“That one – table eight,” Molly was saying, pointing him out, but John didn’t need to double-check: it was already so obvious.

_I’m here on my own merits_ , Sherlock had told John, yesterday. _I have a website_.

And here he was. Large as life, legs crossed at the ankle, phone in hand. Hubert Sigerson – dreaded food critic, rumoured mind-reader and notorious fiend for details – was none other than Sherlock Holmes. 

Molly was looking at him as if she was seriously considering sending him back home. 

John realised his mouth was hanging open. “Sorry,” he said. He felt dizzy, heart racing, chilled to the marrow. This couldn’t be happening. He wasn’t sure which was worse: the realisation that he’d shagged Hubert Sigerson, forked tongue and all, or the thought of Sherlock Holmes subjecting his own damn restaurant to that same destructive scrutiny he’d seen in action less than twenty-four hours ago. 

“Okay,” Molly said, closing her hands on his shoulders and looking him in the eye, “John? Stay with me, here. It’s not that bad. I mean, it is, but it’s not the end of the world – it’s an opportunity, that’s what we’ve got to remember.”

“Sorry,” John said again, shaking his head. “It’s just – Sigerson!” _Sherlock_. Fuck.

Molly’s eyes narrowed and her voice sharpened. “I know, but we need you on board, c’mon now. Snap out of it and get back the kitchen – unless you’ve decided you want rid of this industry after all.”

She was right. John clapped his hands together, trying to shake off the feeling of rising panic. “Right. Right! Has he ordered anything?”

The relief on Molly’s face was almost embarrassing. "Not exactly,” she said, and grimaced. “He said he wants fifteen dishes, which are to be a ‘typical’ selection, and left the actual choice of what to not include up to us. It’s a mind game," she added brightly. “On top of everything else!”

"Fine,” John said. “Fine, we can do that.” He paused before biting the bullet. “Should I go talk to him?" 

Last night he’d wanted nothing more than run into Sherlock again, but these weren’t exactly the circumstances he’d been envisioning. More waiters, fewer beds. Altogether less alcohol.

Molly was giving him a non-comprehending look. "What good would that do?"

"Er," John said, _because of the blowjob_ thankfully not reaching his lips.

Molly was shaking her head as if it had been a rhetorical question. "None at all, believe me. He’s not a people person. You need to be back there doing your best work – and for every single customer here, not just him, do you understand? Every single table."

“You don’t really think he’s a mind-reader,” John said, trying to laugh, “do you?"

Molly didn’t smile. "I don’t know how he does it, but it’s not worth the risk. Follow me.”

John followed her though the double doors into his kitchen, greeted by the mingled smells of roasted meat, sautéed garlic, buttery pastry, and scorched sugar. It was warm with activity, noisy with blades and flames and clattering equipment; every extractor fan was on full blast.

"Boss," someone murmured as John passed, but otherwise the team was almost silent, barking occasional instructions to each other but mostly keeping their heads down, focusing on the tasks at hand with energised concentration.

Salutary effect of fear, John thought – or rather, the salutary effect of Molly. John hadn't got them this stirred up ever. 

He was even feeling it himself, an almost painful urge to get stuck in. He hurried off to get his whites, got changed and scrubbed - to the elbows twice, a habit left over from field surgery - and then he grabbed the task list for table eight. 

And—found himself smiling. The selection that Molly had deemed appropriate to send out seemed to entail half the items on the menu - certainly all the most complicated - but it wasn’t out of the realm of the deliverable. Ambitious and challenging, but not impossible; and not just because John was beginning to feel buoyed up by the charged, determined atmosphere. For all she was currently giving a pan of poached salmon the evil eye, Molly actually seemed to have the situation under control.

John tried to clear his mind of all thoughts of Sherlock waiting outside and concentrate instead on slotting himself into the well-oiled machine of his kitchen.

He was pan-frying duck breast with one hand and scooping extra marinade over a rack of lamb with the other when a different waiter burst into the kitchen, red-faced this time. 

"He says, uh—"

John stilled, dreading whatever news this was already. "What?"

The waiter was breathing hard. "Mr Sigerson says he wonders if we are aware that the man on table three, who we've just sent the scallop soup out to, has a probably-life-threatening peanut allergy."

"Fuck," John said. The scallop soup came with a drizzle of sesame oil. 

The waiter cleared his throat. "And the cross-reactivity between sesame and peanut allergy is 78%. He says."

John stared at him. "And? Have you recalled it? Go!" he shouted, when the boy shook his head. 

He eyed the duck – he was tied to the stove with it for at least another four minutes. "Is someone sorting the replacement scallop soup?" he called, over his shoulder, and Natasha appeared next to him, wincing. 

"Molly sent out for fresh," Natasha said.

"What? What about the rest of the batch from this morning?"

"I sent out for fresh," Molly called over, from the other side of the kitchen, "because fresh scallops will make a difference. Just as fresh eggs will make a difference, and fresh herbs, and - basically if I see anyone touch the freezer today, they can start looking for another post. And that includes you, boss."

There was a ripple of nervous laughter, and Molly was smiling, but—still. John finished his pan-frying in silence, something heavy in the pit of his stomach. 

Would Sherlock ever have come here, if not for him? Was this little restaurant really the next on Hubert Sigerson’s list, or was it a lot more likely, actually, that Sherlock was here because of him, John, and the rest of them were making all this effort for nothing? Sure, there was last night’s acclamation, and from Sherlock’s brother’s award scheme at that – but Sherlock hadn’t seemed interested in any of the other winners, hadn’t even turned up to the ceremony, and fraternal loyalty had hardly been the order of the evening.

John set the duck breasts aside to rest and moved stations to start plating up starters; a terrifying number were headed for table eight. He tried to keep his attention on the tasks at hand – coaxing the various components into careful heaps, tweaking garnishes and adding precision splashes of colourful drizzle – but his thoughts kept jumping tracks.

He stared down at the finished product – a fig, walnut and prosciutto salad, with bright glossy slashes of pomegranate reduction – and tried to see it through Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock, who’d described the meltingly delicious sea bass yesterday as ‘like chewing on a pencil eraser.’

“He’s going to destroy us,” he said, under his breath, and abruptly the kitchen’s heat felt stifling. “Molly, can you take over here?”

“With pleasure,” Molly said, appearing at his elbow, eyes glittering with focus.

Gratefully, John left her to it. Molly was right – going out there wasn’t going to change anything – but his brain had reworked _not going out there_ into something akin to _cowering_. 

“Hullo,” Sherlock said, when John approached. 

Table eight was in the corner, giving Sherlock a great view of the rest of the room. He was leaning back in his chair. His phone sat on the table, glowing.

“Hullo,” John said, voice carefully neutral. “What are you doing here?”

Impassive eyes bored into him. “My job.”

“I thought you said you had a website.”

“I thought you said you had a restaurant.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Complaints?”

Sherlock made a show of looking around himself, then at his empty table. “There’s nothing to complain about, yet.” 

John gave him a tight smile. “I’m assured that your food is on its way. Meanwhile,” he added, and set down an unopened bottle of chilled mineral water with a glass of ice. “Complements of the chef.” 

“Thank you.” 

John twisted off the lid, poured him half a glass, then looked him in the eye as he said, “I hear you have a delicate palate.”

Sherlock just looked at him for several stony seconds—and then he laughed, a warm eye-crinkling laugh that made John feel for a moment like only the two of them existed.

“I do,” Sherlock exclaimed, spreading his hands as if in amazement. “Whoever can have told you that?”

“Just some bloke I met,” John said, pressing his lips together and nodding, letting the memory show in his eyes. 

Sherlock opened his mouth indignantly. “ _Just some bloke_?”

“Mmm. He didn’t tell me much else about you, though.”

“I’m sure he thought you could work it out for yourself.”

“Well,” John said, “we can’t all be geniuses, can we? Anyway, just wanted to pop over and welcome you to _Appetite_ personally. Our menu’s probably not as sophisticated as your usual fare, seeing as we’re just starting out, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.”

“Oh, you know me,” Sherlock said, a velvety mimic of John’s mild tone. “I’ll try anything once.”

An image flashed across John’s brain of Sherlock licking come off his upper lip, and he saw Sherlock smirk at whatever his face did in response. 

“Right,” John said, nodding. “I—I’ve heard you will.”

“You should _pop over_ again afterwards,” Sherlock said, “and bid me farewell personally too.” 

“Of course,” John said, smoother than he felt. It was just beginning to dawn on him that, however horrible it was if Sherlock was here for him and not for the restaurant, the flip side of that would be that _Sherlock was here for him_. 

A movement to his left drew his attention. Yelena joined them, bringing a glass of white wine that was smoothly misted with condensation. Her short blonde hair was pushed forwards in sleek spikes across the lines of her cheekbones. Looking between the two of them, John felt suddenly like his own face was very flat. 

“As I recommended,” she said, setting the wine before Sherlock.

Sherlock picked it up by the stem, sniffed it delicately, then looked at Yelena in satisfaction. “Ah, yes. I quite agree. Bowling greens, after a match.”

“In midsummer,” Yelena said, nodding and smirking. “With a hint of—“

“—Quartz,” Sherlock finished for her, and now he was smirking and her eyes were warm with approval. 

“I’ll… leave you to it,” John said, not that either of them were paying him much attention any more, and withdrew back to the kitchens. 

“Service!” Molly called, as John passed, and the two waiters swooped in to load up half a dozen picture-perfect dishes from the hotplate. These included the first for table eight, and John had to fight down an urge to follow them out to watch Sherlock’s reaction.

“Derek said you made Sigerson laugh,” Molly said, as he joined her to help assemble the rest of the starters. Her voice had a wondering quality to it. “How—how did you do that? He never laughs! I mean, he sometimes smiles to himself – sometimes sort of chuckles while he reads a menu – but he never laughs, at an actual person, as if they’re friendly, ever! I mean, as far as I know.”

John looked at her sideways, fingers busy arranging asparagus spears into stacks. “Why Molly, do I detect some sort of infatuation?”

“No,” Molly said quickly, adding a teardrop of plum chutney to a confit of duck terrine. “But he’s… you know…”

“Dreamy?” John supplied, probably a little too fast to sound properly sarcastic. 

“No! Well—he is, but that’s not it. He’s a celebrity! Albeit one who tore my old boss a new one and made three of our station chefs cry. But still, he was very eloquent throughout, and clearly knew what he was talking about. And he’s such an expert...” 

Her cheeks looked pinker, and not just from proximity to the hotplate. 

John smirked. 

“But obviously,” Molly said quickly, “he’d actually be unbearable, I mean – no one could possibly put up with someone criticising everything all the time, could they? Especially not a chef! Can you imagine?”

John put on his blandest voice: “Would you like him to come sauté your potatoes?” 

“Oh, honestly,” Molly said, and then, to John’s surprise, looked at him directly and shrugged. “He’s at the top of his game, John - it’s impossible not to fancy him a little bit.”

John raised his eyebrows, delighted with getting any sort of admission out of her. “Oh that’s how it is, is it? I suppose you fancy me a little bit too, then?”

“Honey, you are not at the top of your game,” Molly said, and she was smiling fondly so it didn’t sting—much.

“Oof,” John said, pretending to be wounded all the same.


	2. Chapter 2

The plates from table eight weren’t coming back.

“Barely touched ‘em,” Derek said. “But feedback from table three – absolutely fantastic meal, and thanks for not killing him with that soup.”

John spared a smile, his mind still on Sherlock’s barely touched plates. 

Molly had frozen, halfway through garnishing a series of wild mushroom and ale pies. “Is there something wrong? Has he complained?”

Derek looked torn. “No complaints, he just – hasn’t eaten much. Should I clear his table? By the clock I should, I just don’t want to put a foot wrong.” 

He looked to John, then over his shoulder to Molly. 

“Okay,” John said, and they both looked at him. “Go back out,” he told Derek, surprising himself with how convinced his voice was, “and see if he’s still engaging with the food. If he’s looking at it, poking it, giving it any attention at all – leave it with him. But if not – if he’s looking out the window, at other customers, at his phone – then clear it all, sharpish. Okay?”

“Yes, chef,” Derek said, and went back out. 

“You sound very sure of yourself,” Molly said, looking askance at him.

John shrugged. “He’s an all-or-nothing guy. Are we ready with his mains, anyway?”

“Yes, chef,” Molly said. “Ready when you are.”


	3. Chapter 3

The mains went and came back, all barely touched. 

John went to look at the discarded food: a precise mouthful had been carved out of each dish, incorporating a little of every ingredient and leaving the rest to waste. Even the bestsellers: there was the fillet steak and ale pie, a single mouthful dissected out leaving the rest sinking sadly onto the plate; and the pork belly wellington, with just an inch missing off one end. The trio of roasted stuffed squash had faired better, with a bite taken out of each miniature sphere, but Sherlock certainly hadn’t eaten more than he’d left behind. 

“It’s probably a food critic thing,” John said to Molly, who was looking at the plates over his shoulder. 

“Probably,” she agreed, her expression stony. Turning to go, she added under her breath, “Fucking hell.”

By contrast, John felt fairly unruffled by the whole experience. Molly and the station chefs were working double-speed, leaving him only the trickiest dishes with the most delicate finishing touches; and he was working in a bubble, his hands moving on autopilot, one recurring thought growing stronger and stronger: _You should pop over again afterwards, and bid me farewell personally too._

“Yelena’s serving him wine in sherry glasses now, just so you know,” Derek said, when he back in, carrying a stack of empty plates from another table. 

Molly raised her eyebrows, and then shrugged. “If that’s what he wants. How’s everyone else?”

Derek paused just long enough for John to see Molly start to get nervous. Then he grinned. “Well-fed and oblivious.”

Molly laughed and reached for her blowtorch. “Oh good,” she said, firing it up to scorch the top of a crème brûlée, and John could feel the relief shared between them: one way or another, this ordeal was almost over. “Right,” Molly was saying, “well, the apple meringue’s ready to go out – just give Yelena a nod as you take it in case she’s got something up her sleeve.”

“Won’t need to,” Derek said. “She’s practically pulled up a chair.”

John felt a stab of something hot and sharp through his chest. “Oh, really?”

“Pretty much.” Derek’s easy grin was intensely irritating. “Can’t blame her – he’s such a legend. Still, I’ve not seen her get on this well with someone since that indie band girl, do you remember? The one with the blue fringe?”

John remembered stumbling across them in the staff loos, seven types of entangled. “Uh huh,” he said. 

“Here, take this as well,” Molly said, sliding the crème brûlée across towards Derek and flashing him a tight grin. “Quick-sharp – its perfection window is about thirty seconds long.”

“Yes, chef,” Derek said, grinning. 

John watched him load up, feeling distinctly detached in the midst of his own bustling kitchen. Everyone else seemed to have got into the swing of things, to be relishing the challenge and hitting their stride, but he—he wasn’t thinking about the food at all. 

He blinked and refocused on his hands, which were trailing a lattice of molten caramel across vanilla ice cream all by themselves. At least his autopilot was pretty reliable.

He tried to concentrate on finishing the dish, drizzling contrasting slants of dark chocolate across the caramel lattice, but he couldn’t keep his mind on it. He knew he was overreacting, but… Yelena was supposed to be gay, damn it. Sherlock was not supposed to be her type; and she most definitely wasn’t supposed to be his. 

John resisted until the puddings were cleared – Sherlock had at least eaten all the _petit fours_ – and then, when Derek had delivered the somewhat eye-watering bill, went over to him. The rest of the restaurant was emptying out as lazy lunches turned into a nearby pint; an elderly couple were paying their bill, and a few scattered groups were polishing off bottles of wine or chatting over the dregs in their coffee cups, but most of the tables had been cleared.

Sherlock was sipping an espresso, staring out the window, almost motionless. 

As John approached, he looked up, blinked.

“Happy?” John asked.

“Temporarily.”

John remembered the last time he’d said that – in his hotel room, breathing hard, one hand still in John’s hair – and bit back a smile. “Well—“

The look Sherlock gave him could only be described as smouldering; John lost the rest of his sentence, feeling too warm all of a sudden. 

Sherlock downed the rest of his espresso in one quick movement, and set the little cup back on its saucer. “Here,” he said, passing a business card to John between two fingers. “I think this should give you all the relevant details.”

“Thanks,” John said, taking it, wrong-footed now. “Er…”

Sherlock stood up, and Derek swooped in with his coat; he’d been watching, clearly. John hoped his own face hadn’t been the subject of too much scrutiny, as heaven only knew what had been written all over it. 

Sherlock shrugged on his coat and smoothed it closed with both hands; it made him look about seven feet tall. Then he ran one hand up the back of his neck, popping the collar, and grabbed his phone off the table. 

“Ciao,” he said, and swept out, leaving John with a mingled feeling of lust and exasperation. Was it the same man who’d picked John up yesterday, seemingly without a second thought? Should John be feeling this tingling urge to run after him, bury his face in his neck, bite him under that stupid collar and _mark_ him? 

“Well,” Derek said, bringing a tray to clear the espresso cup and saucer, “that was a bit of an anti-climax.”

John realised he was gently fingering the card Sherlock had given him, testing its corners with his thumb. He looked down: it read, in embossed navy blue, _The Gastronomic Consult_ with a web address in a tiny font underneath. No phone number. He turned the card over, and then felt warm disbelief play over his face.

Handwritten in pencil: _221B Baker St. Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same._

“Y-es,” John said to Derek. _Come at once_. “But I think it went, you know, fairly well all told.”

“We won’t know until he writes it up,” Molly said, appearing next to him. She was massaging her right shoulder with her left hand, wincing as she dug her fingers in. “God. What a day.”

Derek walked behind her and closed both hands on her shoulders, knocking her hand away and squeezing. From the look on Molly’s face, this flagrantly unprofessional action would be forgiven this once. 

“At least it was a Sunday so we weren’t full,” Derek said, kneading up and down her neck. 

“Mmm,” Molly agreed. “You’ve got a point, actually - we should get John’s award up in the window, sharpish, ought to pull in a few more tables. Ah, God. Yes. Right there.”

John grinned. Her hair was coming loose from its white cap, and her eyes were closed; she looked for all the world like she’d just been ravished in a store cupboard. Speaking of which.

“Speaking of it being a Sunday,” he started, and Molly flapped a hand at him. 

“I know, it’s your day off. Go! And thank you,” she added, opening her eyes and looking at him in bleary gratitude. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

John felt a pang of discomfort. “It’s me who should be thanking you,” he said. “You moved mountains in there.”

Molly shrugged, earning a disapproving noise from Derek. “Had to be done. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so…”

“Yeah,” John said, “well, I mean it. Thanks.” Anyway. “Time I got out of your hair - see you tomorrow!”

John left them to it, getting washed and changed as fast as possible and then jumping on the first bus he saw going in the right direction. 

He hadn’t even contemplated not going, he realised, as he reached the end of Baker Street. It was a smart enough area, all Georgian townhouses with iron railings, mostly flats from the look of the various For Rent signs dotted around, sometimes four to a building. 

He found number 221 with a warm tightening in his chest; the front door was ajar. He double-checked the card, although he’d memorised the address already, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

He found himself in a fairly dingy corridor, with a door set in one wall and a staircase leading up to darkness. There were coat hooks in the other wall, but no coats. Next to them, a picture of two puppies regarded him blankly from a chipped frame. He could hear the faint noise of jaunty piano music—Flat A, he realised, passing its door, which put Flat B upstairs.

The stairs were steep, and creaked as he climbed; they should have been a significant effort, with his bad leg, but he managed them painlessly two at a time. 

The door upstairs was also cracked open, and John paused for a moment, the ridiculousness of the situation crystallising. He’d come halfway across London and was creeping into a private property on the strength of, what, a few scrawled words and a smouldering look?

Apparently.

He knocked. Even that minimal force caused the door to swing slowly open, further announcing him with a squeak. The floor ahead was polished floorboards and threadbare rugs; briefly, that was all he could see, and then Sherlock was yanking open the door and stepping back to let him in. 

John clocked a hundred details at once: the impatient spark in Sherlock’s eyes, his loosened tie and bare feet, his hair ruffled up as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. The air smelled of coffee and something pleasantly acrid, like old smoke; the light from the window slanted through a thousand spinning dust motes. 

The contents of the room were eclectic, a mixture of antique shop and broken or modified Ikea. There were two bulging Tesco shopping bags on a central table, along with a group of yellowing pot-plants, a pile of unopened letters, a glass ashtray with something red in the bottom, and a scattered handful of loose change. John recognised Sherlock’s coat draped over the arm of a large sofa, with a purple scarf spiralled on top.

“What took you so long?” Sherlock demanded, waving him in and pushing the door shut, hard. 

John wet his lips. So this was actually happening, then. “What’s the hurry?”

Sherlock declined to answer, crossing to him with a purposeful look on his face, grabbing the lapels of John’s coat in both hands and tugging him up into a kiss. 

John’s breath caught as their mouths touched, eagerness firing inside like an ignited gas flame; whatever else was going on between them, this at least was straight forward. He groaned as Sherlock’s tongue entered his mouth – Sherlock hadn’t seemed too fussed about kissing yesterday, but now he was going for it like a man possessed – and as he closed his hands in Sherlock’s hair again, the rush of familiarity was wonderful, dizzying. 

It had been a long time since he’d kissed the same person on two consecutive days. 

Sherlock kept moving closer – Jesus, he was tall – until his feet were either side of John’s and his hips were flush against John’s stomach. He was leaning on John heavily. John braced against stumbling backwards under his weight, and then Sherlock was spinning them around and steering him towards the sofa. The rest of the day was melting away, until there was just this, Sherlock’s hot tongue in his mouth, the muffled urgent noises escaping between them, and John’s mind racing back to the previous night, all the things he’d wanted to do presenting themselves in pornographic detail. Especially—

“You think you want to fuck me,” Sherlock said, against his lips, hands scrabbling at John’s shirt buttons, undoing them in no particular order. He was hard, pressing himself closer with every movement, calling up a restless heat in John’s body; he was enjoying pushing back.

John laughed breathlessly, “Oh,” he said, pulling off Sherlock’s tie in a satisfying hiss of silk and chucking it on the floor, “I _know_ I want to fuck you.”

“Because,” Sherlock continued, kissing his jaw, his neck, changing sides, sucking his collarbone, running kisses up his throat, claiming his mouth again as John’s shirt fell open, “that's what you usually do.”

John almost laughed again, but was shivering too hard under the onslaught. “I don't – ah – _usually_ do anything.”

“You've had male partners in the last three months. At least two,” Sherlock said, his voice equitable, for all he was running his hands down John’s bare chest and grasping him through his trousers. 

“Yes,” John gasped, pressing into his grip, his own hands closing on Sherlock’s shirt and yanking, an ineffectual attempt to rip it open. 

“And none of them have fucked you,” Sherlock persisted, stroking him roughly, not at all put off by John’s hapless attempt at rending garments; his mouth was sliding against John’s earlobe, teeth closing around it for a few shocking seconds.

John was nodding, chest heaving, stars filling his vision. “No, they—none of them did.”

Sherlock pulled back, looked him in the eye. “I want to.” 

“—Um,” John said, and Sherlock was right, that wasn't what he usually did, but it wasn't something he'd vowed not to do, he just normally wouldn't do it with someone he didn't trust yet; he looked into Sherlock's hard-glinting eyes, eminently untrustworthy, and nodded.

“Unless you want to suck me off again,” Sherlock offered, as if allowing a favour.

John wet his lips, mind filling with the impulse to fold to his knees. “Next time.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. “Let go of me.”

John just looked at him. 

“You’ll be faster undressing yourself,” Sherlock said, as if that was an adequate explanation.

“Ah,” John said, swallowing, “you mean—here?”

“Evidently.” Sherlock was already finishing the job John had started, shedding his own clothes as he walked over to the table and upended one of the Tesco bags. A pack of condoms and a box of KY shook out onto the table, along with a punnet of cumquats, a packet of nori sheets, and a pocket-sized bottle of Listerine. 

“Um—“

“Where else?” Sherlock asked, ripping open the boxes and scattering condoms everywhere. He tossed a couple at the sofa, the lube following in a low arc and bouncing on a cushion.

John was staring at him, caught between turned on and taken aback. “Your bedroom?”

“Can’t see the bed,” Sherlock said, kicking off his underwear, and then he was naked and advancing on him again, and John found his mouth was too dry to voice any more objections. Anyone who ate food for a living did not deserve to look this good, seriously. 

“So I should—“

“Take it all off,” Sherlock said, nodding and reaching for him, his voice slipping down into a register that John was learning was quite dangerous. He worked on the remainder of John’s clothes, stripping him relentlessly while John attempted to help, and then John was being tumbled down onto the sofa, which was softer and squishier than it looked, and Sherlock was following heavy and eager on top of him. 

“Fuck,” John muttered, the luxury of skin-against-skin making concerns about whether or not this was a brilliant idea seem very far away. He thrust up, trapping their cocks between their stomachs and grunting in primal pleasure. Sherlock bared his teeth and rocked against him, his eyes going half closed.

John slid his hands up Sherlock’s back, from the hollows at the base of his spine along the dimpled rise of vertebrae, mapping out the symmetrical ridges of his shoulder blades, the way they moved as Sherlock shifted above him. He could get off just like this, he thought; everything was warm and smooth and there was pressure in all the right places, and then Sherlock insinuated himself between John’s legs and suddenly, ah. 

“It’s been, um, a while,” John started, as slick fingers pressed into him, his legs held open by Sherlock’s body. He became abruptly aware that Sherlock had pretty much pinned him down; Sherlock was half-sprawled on top of him, with John’s knees hooked loosely over Sherlock’s hips, and as Sherlock fingered him with one hand and rolled a condom onto himself with the other, there didn't seem to be much option beyond lying back and letting him.

“I know,” Sherlock said, pushing in past the knuckle, pitching forwards and kissing John’s neck again. “I don’t mind,” he added, as John tipped his head back into the cushions and panted, seeing stars. Squirming on those long fingers, John found himself grabbing the arm of the sofa above his head, arching his back like a teenager. His body was remembering what it was like to do this, to give up control, lie here open and vulnerable, and he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that he—

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, “of course you like it,” slowly withdrawing his fingers and then pushing them back in, deeper, making John’s toes curl. 

“You know,” John said, “this mind-reading habit of yours is not as cute as you seem to think—ah, Jesus,” because Sherlock’s fingers were gone again, and he was already lining up his cock, bending John’s good leg back against his chest to make room.

“I am not trying to be cute,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding forced. He was leaning heavily, no room now to get a hand between them so his cock was just poking at John’s arse, a hard point of blunt pressure. 

“I—so I gather,” John gasped, feeling himself start to open, the white-hot sensation of stretching as the pressure grew and grew.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, seeking out his mouth again, curving over him and _pushing_ , until the head squeezed in, fuck, _fuck_.

“Fuck,” John bit off, clenching down hard, and Sherlock groaned and kept pushing, sliding inside, slow but wide and – Jesus Christ – deep.

“Ah,” Sherlock said, almost a groan, and then he paused and adjusted his position while John fought for breath: folding John’s leg over his shoulder, sliding one arm behind John’s neck against the sofa cushions, and lowering his head to nuzzle John’s throat some more. It brought them closer, Sherlock’s warm stomach glancing against John’s cock, which was still standing rigid although whether out of flight-or-fight or actual arousal John wasn’t fully sure.

“That feels very good,” Sherlock murmured, against his ear, a pretty fucking arousing sound; a pulse of heat went through the base of John's belly, and his dick twitched.

“Uh huh?” John said, gritting his teeth: waves of heat were rolling up from his stretched hole as Sherlock shifted, forwards and back, a set of almost-experimental nudges.

“Yes," Sherlock said, and his breath was coming faster now, damp puffs of heat against John's ear. "I’ve been planning to do this since you poured me that bottle of water, and it feels precisely as I predicted. I could reach orgasm in thirty-eight seconds, if I moved like I wanted to right now.”

He pressed in deeply again, and John heard himself groan. He felt like he might be having an out-of-body experience. It had all happened so fast: one minute he was pushing open the front door of 221, the next he was flat on his back with the hard cock of a man he barely knew pushed so deep inside him he couldn’t catch his breath to make more than— _noises_ , low effortful noises that rose and fell in response to Sherlock’s hips, seemingly unconnected to John’s brain.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, measurably slowing down, the sweet friction of it making John want more and more and more, “if I make myself go slowly…” pausing so that John’s shaky inhalation seemed like a loud hiss in the quiet room “…I could draw it out.”

Realisation broke through his muggy brain. “You’re getting me back for—For yesterday.” 

“Not at all,” Sherlock said, in a voice that was not at all sincere. “I enjoyed yesterday very much. So much so that I wanted you again. Do you have—any idea how rarely that happens?” His voice unsteadied as he pushed in again, a firm smooth thrust that had John gasping. And again. And again.

“Flattered, I’m sure,” John bit off, rocking his hips so that as Sherlock pushed in he hit _that_ , yes, that, _that_ , “just… Jesus, don’t stop.” It was starting to get better: a haze of frustrated half-movements shot through with pinpricks of gratification. His voice went soft and blurred in his mouth, volume dropping. “Oh, God.”

“But you couldn’t,” Sherlock said, at normal volume; and then, when John made a confused noise, said “Oh, _come on_ , don’t be obtuse. I’m continuing a statement made less than a minute previously.”

“What?”

“More like—“ Sherlock said, between two hard thrusts that took John’s breath away, “forty seconds ago,” and again, “in fact.”

John struggled to make words. “You know, it’s a little difficult to concentrate when you’re—“

It was the wrong thing to say: Sherlock came to an abrupt halt, pulling mostly out. “Is that better?” he demanded, bracing against the back of the sofa to keep still.

John scowled around gritted teeth. The tip of Sherlock’s cock was still just inside him, infuriating in both how good it felt and how not-enough. He could feel tension running through Sherlock’s body, the effort to hold himself back, and what sort of contrary bastard would—? 

Sherlock glared.

“This is better for thinking,” John said, making it clear with his voice that _thinking_ was hardly his top priority right now. Nevertheless, he was becoming aware of complaints from his good leg, bent back against his chest, and now the sweaty press of the sofa cushions was beginning to chafe at his shoulder blades. He let his leg slide off Sherlock’s shoulder until his heel hit the sofa behind Sherlock’s arse; it splayed his thighs wider, edged Sherlock’s cock out a little more, but was an improvement nonetheless. “Not better for the mood.”

“The mood,” Sherlock scoffed. “What _I_ was talking about,” he told him, as if John were an imbecile not to have realised this by now, “was that although I could climax like this if I only released my self-control, you will not.” 

John stared up at him. “ _What_?”

“Like this,” Sherlock repeated, indicating their bodies with his hand. “Although you do enjoy it, there are elements of being fucked like this which don’t excite you – enough to come, I mean. Odd, because yesterday you got harder whilst deep-throating me, suggesting a certain propensity for being penetrated – which doesn’t necessarily mean anywhere, any time, I realise, but points towards rather than against the idea – an assumption supported by your pupil dilatation when I made the suggestion, and since you actively agreed and only exhibit mild self-sacrificial traits in your daily life I think it’s safe to presume you were genuinely in favour, of the idea at least… And I’m not crushing the leg that you think is wounded,” he added, clearly an afterthought. 

John was still staring. “Let me get this straight,” he said, voice rasping with incredulity, pushing up on his elbows and ignoring the stab of delicious friction as that shifted his arse on the head of Sherlock’s cock. “It’s all going perfectly well but you’ve stopped mid-shag to give me a lecture on what will or won’t get _me_ off? And what do you mean, I _think_ it’s wounded? I took a fucking bullet!”

Sherlock’s eyes had darkened at the movement. “To your shoulder,” he said, his voice dropping again. “In June of 2010, about a month before you were invalided home; you haven’t been to a hot country since, the tan lines have faded but the freckle distribution remains, especially at your hairline where the desert sun had the most impact—and you were shot in the shoulder, now persisting with retrograde amnesia of the event, no florid PTSD but you’ve been limping ever since. Oh, I want to fuck you so hard,” he added in a breathless rush, and clenched all over, visibly holding himself back.

Despite the nagging feeling that this was a bad idea, John had got pretty swept up in the intimate feeling of having his memories read out loud in Sherlock’s low voice. He squeezed down on the head of Sherlock’s cock, making his own voice drop. “Then what’s stopping you?”

A hint of wildness came back into Sherlock’s eyes and he jerked away, pulling out completely. His cock slapped against his stomach, the condom rolling halfway up. “I told you! This—like this—you won’t—“

“And you _care_?” It didn’t seem to fit with the rest of his character. 

An odd look crossed Sherlock’s face. “Apparently.” He narrowed his eyes, his gaze skating over John’s body. John felt himself grow warmer, becoming painfully aware of himself as a precise series of observed inches: his sweat-damp skin, the arrangement of his limbs, the direction of every hair. His cock swelled as Sherlock regarded it with a thoughtful expression. 

“Maybe it’s the – ” Sherlock started, then dismissed that idea himself, whatever it was, and glanced back up at John’s face. “No. Quite off the mark. You wanted me to continue – you were frustrated when I stopped.”

John almost laughed. “Understatement.”

“No, and you don’t know the answer either,” Sherlock said loudly, over the top of him. “Okay, fine, new theory: I went too fast. You need more time to catch up with events before you can relax into being taken anally – your brain is fighting me, questioning my motives, refusing to relinquish control. However much you enjoy this sensation,” and he reached down and traced the entrance to John’s body, firm fingertips making John shiver, threatening to push in and then melting away again, maddening as hell, “you’re thinking too much about it to be able to get off.” 

“ _I’m_ the one thinking too much about it,” John said dryly, even as the shivers redoubled. Sherlock’s way with words was simultaneously terrible and fascinating. A lot like his way with people. John shifted his bad leg, and Sherlock’s focus snapped to the movement.

“Is it hurting?”

“Uh,” John said, catching himself about to say “ _not too bad_ ”, his usual response for when it wasn’t excruciating. “Actually, no, it’s not. But before you go getting any ideas,” he added, raising his voice as Sherlock gave him a smug grin, “I’ll point out that endorphins are one of the best things for neuropathic pain.”

“True,” Sherlock said without blinking, which pissed John off a little; just occasionally he thought that he sounded like he knew what he was talking about, and it would be nice to have that acknowledged, “but the best thing for pain, neuropathic or otherwise, the absolute best thing – is for it not to exist in the first place. Now tell me how you normally like to be fucked.”

John took a breath to speak, and then paused – looking into Sherlock’s determined eyes, devoid of shame – and slowly blew out the breath again. “I should go.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “What? No,” he said. “We haven’t finished.”

“We might’ve, actually,” John said, and parts of him – the part still erect against his stomach, for one – couldn’t believe he was calling this a day, but. This was ridiculous. He untangled his legs from Sherlock’s and slid his feet off the sofa onto the floor. “I think it’s probably best if I—“

“No,” Sherlock said again, and ran an agitated hand through his hair; it puffed up wildly, looking more touchable than ever. “You object to something I said. Or did.” He gave John’s cock an accusing look, bobbing in John’s lap as he gathered himself to stand up from the sofa. “I paid attention to the wrong parts. I missed something.”

He sounded so cross with himself that John hesitated as he stood; and then Sherlock pounced, flinging himself at that moment of weakness like an archer who’d been watching for a clear shot.

“John,” he purred, pressing himself against John’s body and grasping his face, kissing him on the lips. “John, please don’t go.”

John shivered. The heat of him seemed to feel better every time. “I think it’s for the best,” he said, and then grunted as Sherlock slipped his tongue into his mouth, fingers smoothing across the nape of John’s neck, kissing him sweet and firm and just how he liked it. 

“It isn’t.”

“But…“ His cock had never really given up interest in proceedings and now it was urgently hard again, pressed up against the heat of Sherlock’s stomach, jostling against the hard line of Sherlock’s cock, teasing up a fucking incredible set of sensations.

“We are surprisingly good together,” Sherlock mumbled, against his mouth. “It’s pointless to ignore it. This.” He punctuated his words with a slow thrust of hips, his cock sliding against John’s, and in the blinding pleasure of that moment John found that he didn’t care if Sherlock was now just saying what he’d deduced John wanted to hear. 

In fact, he was beginning to suspect that any effort of pretence on Sherlock’s part – or pretence of effort, for that matter – could actually be taken as a compliment. 

“You can’t deny this feels good,” Sherlock persisted, doing it again.

Against the remnants of his better judgement, John closed his eyes and leaned into him.

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. “Exactly,” he muttered, as if John had said something out loud. “I—don’t understand why you would want to leave.” Already John had a sense that admissions like that were rare. 

John breathed out a shaky laugh. _Because you seem more interested in being right than being inside me? Because you’re the bluntest person I’ve ever met? And possibly also the sharpest?_

“Self-preservation,” he said.

“I’ll be quiet,” Sherlock said immediately. “Just – show me.”

His hands slid down John’s back like the broad firm strokes of a masseur, then curved around John’s arse and pulled them both together. 

“Show me,” he said again, barely more than a whisper, brushing his lips against John’s.

It was enough. “’Kay,” John said, walking Sherlock backwards, pushing him down on the sofa and kneeling astride his thighs, kissing him hard. Sherlock was responsive beneath him, warm and eager and attentive – John had never felt so _attended_ to in his life. He acknowledged he was being weak, but... nothing Sherlock had said had been wrong, exactly. Just jarring and inappropriate. 

He’d feel even stupider storming out with nothing but a chip on his shoulder and a persistent hard-on. 

John broke the kiss when his head started swimming, and Sherlock immediately gathered him closer, urging him to kneel up, bringing John’s stomach in line with Sherlock’s face; leaning in to kiss the groove of John’s hip. His mouth felt very hot, tongue sliding generous over John’s skin. It put John’s cock very close to Sherlock’s mouth, John couldn’t help notice, and an image of Sherlock sucking him off rose in his mind—but Sherlock didn’t do that, not really, wasn’t that what he’d said yesterday?

“Like this?” Sherlock said, lips moving across John’s stomach, one firm hand sliding down the back of his thighs and away, the other encircling John’s cock. 

“Yeah,” John said, breath coming short again. 

Sherlock stroked him, mouthing the base of John’s cock whilst rubbing his thumb gently over the tip, and then John felt Sherlock’s other hand return, fingers cool with a thick squeeze of lube, pressing back up into him, obscenely slippery. 

“Better,” Sherlock said, skewering him on two fingers, and John swallowed, nodding. Between Sherlock’s hand on his cock and the steady pressure in his arse, he suddenly saw no problems with getting off at all. In fact if they didn’t hurry up—

“Let me,“ John gasped, reaching down for Sherlock’s cock, hot and hard beneath the tight stretch of latex. 

“Mm,” Sherlock said, a low reverberation of approval. His breath came in a gratifying shudder as John lowered himself onto his cock, rocking steadily to let it breach him and then sinking down on it hard. 

“Oh God,” John muttered, sparks flying through his brain, that stretch again, and now so fucking full; he shifted, knees sinking into the back of the sofa, until he was snug in Sherlock’s lap with his cock right the way up inside him, almost too much but God, so fucking good.

“Mm,” Sherlock said again, rolling his hips beneath him and kissing his chest. His eyes were closed and he looked like he was drowning in sensation, his hands alternatively stroking up John’s sides and returning to his cock, his mobile fingers squeezing soft and restless. 

“Yeah, I don’t think there’s much risk I won’t get off like this,” John breathed, sliding his hands around Sherlock’s shoulders and arching his back. 

Sherlock opened his eyes again. “No,” he agreed, and tapped his hips up, a quick slide of his cock that made John moan. His mouth curved in a pleased grin. “All evidence certainly points that way.”

His confidence was the sexiest thing John had experienced in years. John started moving on him in earnest, lifting up and sinking down, slowly at first, working out the balance of it – what made him want to go faster and what made him feel like he was about to pass out. He found a good slow rhythm that Sherlock immediately appropriated for his own ends: pulling John down on his cock with every stroke and shoving up to meet him, hard. 

“Oh fuck,” John said, starbursts going off behind his eyes. “Fuck. Do that again.”

Sherlock grinned and did it again, his eyes darkening as John moaned. He was all heat and movement: he kept leaning back and staring up at him, then surging in to suck his chest or nuzzle his collarbones, hands ever-wandering, mouth hot and wet and occasionally sharp with teeth.

“Feels good,” he muttered, when John made a questioning noise, and then he looked up and said with glazed intensity, “You know, I’ve never given a blind toss about whether someone was going to come whilst I fucked them, before.”

His eyes narrowed as he spoke, a series of particularly vicious thrusts undercutting his words. 

“Romantic,” John gasped, his brain going hazy. This was—he was getting really close. 

“Romance is for plebs looking to be commercially exploited,” Sherlock shot back. “I just want to make you come.”

“Jesus,” John gasped, his cock sandwiched between them, rubbing against Sherlock’s stomach. Distantly John was aware that this position ought to be murder on his leg, but fuck it, he hadn’t been kidding about the endorphins. Sherlock’s hand kept returning to play over his cock every few seconds, five or six tight squeezing strokes before releasing him again; the crest of pleasure each time had barely begun to dissipate before his hand was back again, coaxing him higher. “I—think I—“

“Yes,” Sherlock said, leaning up and biting his lower lip before swiping his tongue into his mouth, pumping his cock hard.

“Just—keep going,” John muttered, a crucial part of him releasing control of his body, relaxing into the hammering Sherlock was giving him, the sheer barrage of sensation: his arse burning with Sherlock’s cock, his cock gripped in Sherlock’s hand, very different feelings anchored to the same glowing place right behind his balls. He sucked on Sherlock’s tongue, trying to eke out the most from every last sparkling nerve ending, riding the wave of it until it enveloped him—and then he groaned, heat and light colliding, and spilled between them, squeezing down tight.

Sherlock made a fierce noise and gripped him harder, grinding him down onto his cock and pressing his face against John’s neck. John clung on, panting out curses and baring his throat to Sherlock’s mouth, unable to formulate thoughts beyond _fuck_ and _yes_ and _thank you_.

As he started to come back to himself, he became aware of Sherlock’s hands stroking up and down his back, accompanied by slow but deliberate nudges of his cock deep in John’s arse. 

John made himself pull back enough to meet Sherlock’s eyes. His brain felt syrupy with goodwill, and those nudges were causing little rivulets of sparks to course through him, deep inside; he had no idea what he must look like. Sweaty, swearing. Dazed.

Sherlock was watching him with a calculating expression. When he saw John looking he tilted his hips, a firmer nudge, and raised his eyebrows, surprising a laugh out of John. Considerate of him to ask.

“Go ahead,” John said, folding his hands over the back of the sofa to hold himself up.

“Oh good,” Sherlock breathed, seizing John’s hips with both hands and angling himself more firmly within him, that single-minded look returning to his eyes.

“Fuck,” John said, as Sherlock picked up the pace again, holding John’s arse steady and thrusting up into him. It felt different, having come – there was no distraction, nothing to focus on except the sensation of Sherlock’s cock moving inside him, hard and fast. He kind of… loved it. Fuck. It still took his breath away, but on a different level; there was something ridiculously hot about being used like this, just _moved_ on Sherlock’s cock, the sole purpose being to get Sherlock off, and damn did he look good as he got close—and then John caught the unmistakable sound of a door shutting upstairs and footsteps, thudding across the ceiling.

He stiffened, looking up in confusion. 

Sherlock responded with a low growl and a redoubling of his pace. 

“Wh—what’s that? Is there another flat upstairs?” 

“No,” Sherlock said, slamming up harder, making them both grunt. “That's my flatmate.”

John’s head was spinning, so it took him a moment. “Your _what_?” 

Sherlock’s hard-and-fast rhythm didn’t falter. “He won't come down,” he said, through gritted teeth, as if that was in any way reassuring. “And if he did, which he won't, he'd just want to join in—ah, fuck, squeeze down again, that’s good.”

“Jesus,” John said, outraged and yet obeying anyway, questioning his own judgement but it was worth it because he _saw_ the moment Sherlock started to come: hands wrapped tightly around John's thighs, fingers digging in, stabbing up hard and shuddering out his release. 

The look on his face reminded John of one of the first moments he'd seen him, across the room, tasting freshly-poured champagne, his face smoothing out in appreciation. It had caught John's attention then; now he stared transfixed as Sherlock's eyes closed and his head fell back against the sofa, lips pressing in against each other and then parting in a hoarse almost-silent groan. 

Fresh sweat gleamed on his forehead, on the slants of cheekbones and collarbones and the column of his neck. John gave into the temptation of it and bent to capture his mouth, and Sherlock hummed as if pleased, his lips soft and pliant against John's. His arms were sliding up to wrap around him, keeping him close—it was a dangerously good feeling.

When he drew back, Sherlock gave a contented sigh that John couldn’t help but file away for future reference. 

“Happy?” John asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Temp…orarily,” Sherlock said, around a wide yawn. Then he winced and reached down between them, opening his eyes. “Lift off, or we’ll stain the sofa.”

John snorted. “ _Now_ you’re thinking about the sofa,” he said, but knelt up, everything protesting as his knees took his weight and Sherlock’s cock pulled out of his body. The combined sensations left him light-headed, and as Sherlock wriggled out from under him and stood up, John grabbed the back of the sofa again, closing his eyes for a moment as the room span around him. 

When he opened them again, Sherlock had got rid of the condom and produced a shiny, wallpaper-print dressing gown apparently from thin air.

“You should get dressed since you prefer not to be walked in on,” Sherlock said, belting it shut, his gaze lingering on John’s body again. 

John stood up as well, torn again between outrage and amusement, still weak with post-coital warmth. “You could have told me you live with someone.”

“I could have,” Sherlock agreed, yawning again. He glanced around the room and then back at John, looking faintly disapproving. “I would have thought it was obvious – his presence in here is overbearing.”

John followed his gaze, nonplussed. The late afternoon sun was still shining through the windows, a tea-stained light that made the strange jumble of the room look almost artistic. 

“The post on the table,” Sherlock was saying, with a negligent wave. “The fact that there are two phone chargers plugged into the wall over there, both switched on; I could have two phones, but it’s more likely that there are two residents. Then consider the books – that shelf only holds good books that are useful for research, whereas that shelf,” he drawled, his lip curling, “is full of populist nonsense. Then take the kitchen – even at this distance you can see that there are two sets of washing-up habits on the go, surely. I would think that _most_ people, with five minutes to observe, would conclude that either two people lived here, or one angry schizophrenic.”

John folded his arms, then regretted it—much of his body seemed to be smeared with various fluids, and it was beginning to feel extremely sticky. “What can I say? I was preoccupied.”

Sherlock threw him a quick grin. “Yes.”

“Of course, the alternative would have been for us to go into your bedroom,” John pointed out, fishing his boxers off the floor and looking around for his trousers. “I mean, I presume you do _have_ a bedroom...”

“I told you, the bed would have to be excavated first,” Sherlock said, walking over to the table and rummaging in the other Tesco bag. He withdrew a six-pack of small bottles of fizzy water and what looked like a box of nicotine patches. He produced a knife from somewhere beneath the table – _please_ , John thought, _please don’t be someone who keeps knives in your dressing gown pocket, Sherlock_ – and set about sawing the plastic from around the water bottles.

John elected not to comment, focusing instead on a different issue that was feeling increasingly important: “Look, can I have a shower?”

Sherlock nodded, gulping water with his eyes closed. “Mm,” he said, gesturing in the direction of a door across the other side of the room. Closed, thank God.

“Uh, right. And towels?”

Sherlock paused in drinking and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and even though John was sated and somewhat annoyed, he couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock looked really bloody kissable right now. 

“In the bathroom,” Sherlock said, and his eyes acquired a flash of wickedness. “I’m sure my flatmate won’t be lurking in the corridor. After all, why would he be? You weren’t that noisy.”

“Great,” John said, gathering up his clothes and then thinking better of it and draping them over a chair instead. “Thanks. Does this flatmate have a name?”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, drinking again. “Probably.” He finished the water and reached for a second bottle; it gave a sharp hiss as he twisted off the lid. “Not very good with names, I must admit.”

John remembered Sherlock saying, _John, John, please_ , and felt a tingle of residual warmth. “Right,” he said. “Fair enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to puppethorse for beta.


End file.
